


Silence

by CanonCannon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Imprisonment, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Minor Character Death, Mute Daryl Dixon, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, traumatized Daryl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8594575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: Daryl glared at Rick, pointing to his neck.A game of charades began."Something's wrong with your throat?"





	1. Chapter 1

At first no one knew what was wrong with him.

Well, they knew that he was dirty, naked, bruised, and half-starved, but they didn’t understand why he wouldn't say anything—why he hadn't said anything for the forty minutes that they’d been screaming his name as they slaughtered their way through the halls of the Sanctuary, killing the last of the Saviors. Why he hadn't said anything on those rare occasions Negan had paraded him around Alexandria.

It took forever to find something for him to write with.

In his impatience Rick actually grabbed Daryl by the head and tried to force open his mouth, earning himself a bite that nearly broke the skin. Rick didn't mind much. He was glad to see Daryl still had that fight in him.

Wrenching away, Daryl glared at Rick, pointing to his neck.

A game of charades began.

"Something's wrong with your throat?"

Daryl nodded firmly. Rick staggered in relief. “Christ, Daryl, I… I thought Negan cut your fucking tongue out. Haven't heard you speak since that night." He didn't say which night he meant--he knew he didn't have to.

Rick smiled weakly at his friend. He’d wanted Daryl to be safe, to be _home_ , for so long, and now it was actually going to happen. His best friend, his brother, was going to be free of this place. They were going to take care of him and get him better.

Daryl didn't smile back. He just gestured towards his throat more insistently, looking lost and frustrated.

Finally Sasha jogged in with a marker and cereal box. She ripped the box open, handing it to Daryl so he could write on the inside.

The hunter stood awkwardly for a moment, just gripping the cardboard and marker in his hands. Eventually he uncapped the marker with his teeth. As he wrote he held the cardboard at an angle so they couldn't see and he hesitated again before turning the box around, revealing a short message in messy, childish print.

**bad vocal cords**

Rick's heavy dread came back in spades. "Are you sick?"

Daryl shook his head and wrote out: **surgery** _._ There were tears in his eyes.

Sasha got it before Rick, her face blanching in horror. "Daryl, did Negan…” and Daryl flinched back just at the fucking name. She gentled her tone before continuing, “Did they have any _reason_ to do surgery on you?”

Daryl looked uncomfortable, glancing at the door as if expecting someone. The dirt on his face streaked with a couple of tears before he wiped them away hastily. Finally he scrawled out a new message.

**disobeyed**

Rick left the room at a run, thinking he was going to throw up.

He didn't, but it was a close thing.

As soon as he could think again, he was shouting at the top of his lungs, “Carson! Get Carson in here!”

—

Carson was dragged into the cell and pushed into a chair in front of Rick. They’d decided to spare the Saviors' doctor for the sake of his brother Harlan, who had saved so many lives at Hilltop during the war, but they knew he wasn't some helpless hostage at the Sanctuary.

The doctor’s eyes darted nervously to Daryl, who was hovering anxiously in a corner. Jesus had found him some clothes, baggy jeans and a blue shirt that was tight even on his malnourished frame. Rick had helped him into them; Daryl was shaking too badly to manage on his own.

The rage pumping through Rick’s body was barely under control. He asked in a trembling voice, pointing at his cowering brother, “What did you do to him?”

Carson hesitated for a long, long time, until finally Rick pulled his gun out of its holster. That got the older man talking.

“You have to understand, Negan, he- he made me do it. He wanted Daryl to join us- _them_ , join them, but Daryl gave the wrong answer. Then Negan, he forced me to do it, I swear.”

Rick cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing dangerously. “I’m out of patience, doctor. What _exactly_ did Negan make you do?”

“He- he didn’t want him, Daryl, talking anymore. So I performed a, uh- an operation, of sorts. I was instructed to… to manually crush his vocal cords.”

The leader couldn’t breathe. He jerked violently away from Carson, the fucking maggot. The motion startled Daryl, who pressed his back against the wall and shielded his face with one arm. Rick felt the churning anger inside of him grow fiercer, molten lava hot in his veins.

Sasha thought to ask, “Can you reverse it?”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t- we just don’t have the technology, it would take lasers-” Rick made a noise like a wounded, feral animal, and Carson talked faster, "But the cords could heal themselves in time! He won't, uh, be able to talk per se, but someday he may be able to whisper-"

With a sharp nod, Rick turned back to Dr. Carson, raised his gun, and blew the man’s brains out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl struggles with his first taste of freedom.

The sound of the gunshot brought Daryl literally to his knees. Rick turned away from Carson’s slumped corpse and found him kneeling and trembling worse than ever, digging his forehead into the wall of the cell.

Quickly holstering his gun, Rick crouched in front of his brother. “Hey- Daryl, I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. Should have taken him outside. Hey, you’re ok, you’re ok…” Moving slowly, telegraphing his intent so that Daryl could pull away if he wanted to, Rick reached out and clasped his shoulder gently. Daryl didn't pull away--he grabbed at Rick’s hand with his own, finally meeting Rick’s eyes and nodding.

In a bitter sort of way, Rick was grateful that Daryl had never been much of a talker. He could read the man’s expressions and gestures like a book, and Daryl was trying to say that he was ok now. Rick didn't believe him for a second, but it was a good sign that his friend was trying to reassure him.

Still kneeling, Daryl pulled the marker from the pocket of his jeans and wrote directly on his cell wall, **thank you**.

Rick was unsure if Daryl was referring to the comfort or the murder, but realized it didn’t matter—his response was the same regardless. “Any time. Now come on, let’s get you home.”

—

Just talking Daryl out of the cell was heartbreakingly difficult. He stood at the door, shifting his weight uncertainly, then jumped back when one of the fighters from the Kingdom walked by. Rick sent Jesus ahead to warn people away from the path to the front of the complex.

Five minutes later he sent Sasha to find Carol, knowing she would have the sense to warn the older woman about Daryl’s condition. Sure enough, Carol was careful not to ask Daryl anything beyond yes or no questions when she arrived. Otherwise she treated him as normally as possible. When she kissed his forehead in greeting Daryl didn’t quite smile, but his lips twitched a little and his expression relaxed.

But even Rick and Carol’s combined persuasion didn't budge him from his prison.

They eventually had to get fucking Dwight to coax him out, and it killed Rick that that was what it took. The leader wasn’t sure if Daryl responded to the blond man out of fear or familiarity. He hated it regardless of the reason. Carol was also glaring daggers at the interloper, while Sasha just looked ready to cry. Still, it was good to finally get Daryl out of the grotty little room, even if it was just out into the grotty little hallway.

Their odd parade had almost reached the front doors when Daryl suddenly stopped limping forward, squared his jaw, and pointed insistently at Dwight. None of them could figure out what the silent man wanted until he reached out to snag the corner of the black angel wing and shook it insistently.

Dwight glanced around reluctantly before scowling and shucking the garment, handing it over ungraciously. Daryl pulled it on over the tight blue t-shirt. It didn't look right at all over the borrowed outfit and it was too big for the hunter’s diminished frame, but Rick still felt like he could fucking cheer as it settled on those familiar shoulders.

—

Within minutes, everything went wrong again.

Most of the group was staying at the Sanctuary, with Michonne in charge, to scavenge and to check every possible nook and cranny for hiding Saviors. Then they’d send folks out into the woods to round up any cowards who ran. Rick had planned on staying to help, but the need to personally get Daryl away from there turned out to be too strong for him to bear.

They made it outside and were nearly to the car when Jesus, Maggie, and Eric rounded a corner of the building, walking quickly towards them. The group was talking quietly, and Eric carried a pair of tennis shoes that looked about Daryl’s size.

Maggie and Eric stopped in their tracks at the sight of their beaten, frail friend, but they recovered quickly and plastered fake smiles on their faces. Eric in particular was a terrible actor.

Daryl also stopped in his tracks, going completely immobile—Rick didn’t think he was even breathing. The hunter looked horrified. His agitation was obvious enough that everyone in the small courtyard paused in place, waiting for a sign that he was alright again.

But he wasn't, not at all. Daryl turned and tried to rush back into the Sanctuary, his hands reaching around to clench together behind his back as though still chained. It took Rick physically blocking the door to stop him. He suddenly seemed reluctant to touch the leader, so he just walked in a tight circle in the doorway, shooting terrified glances at the trio who startled him with wide, blinking eyes.

Rick had no clue what set this off, and his brother seemed intent on ignoring everything he said. It took several tries to get any reaction at all.

“Daryl… Daryl, look at me. Hey, what’s up?”

The pacing man did glance at him briefly—then he started violently thumping his palm against the side of his head.

Rick acted without thinking, jumping forward and catching those raw wrists. Going completely still again, Daryl stared at him through his overgrown hair.

“Hey brother… stay with me, alright? You know them. You know Maggie, and that’s Eric, Aaron’s husband. And Jesus, from Hilltop? Remember chasing that little fucker around after he stole our truck? They’re friends, they’re not gonna hurt you."

But the hunter’s mouth tightened as if they already had.

“Could you try to write something, maybe? Tell me what’s wrong?”

For a moment Daryl didn’t seem to understand what the leader meant, but eventually, slowly, he pulled out the marker again. Looking dazed, he moved to the wall of the building and wrote: **this aint real**

The bottom seemed to fall out of Rick’s world. The muteness was one thing: Daryl still Daryl, just unable to speak his mind. It was awful, of course it was, but Rick knew he could find a workaround, a way to speak Daryl's mind for him. But if the rescued prisoner was so broken that he thought he was hallucinating all this, if his sanity was truly compromised, well then Rick would break right alongside him.

“What? Daryl, Daryl, no. Of course it’s real. I’m real. You’re safe now, you’re coming home with us.”

Daryl shook his head rapidly and replied: **shes dead**. Then he gestured at Maggie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie helps Daryl through it.

Someone fled to track down Father Gabriel while Rick began to explain, quietly and calmly, why the priest had dug the false grave. Daryl didn’t seem to understand Rick very well, so when Gabriel arrived and began repeating the story the leader was relieved to see that Daryl was tracking with the priest, the panic receding a bit from his gaze.

It roared back when Maggie approached. Daryl couldn’t seem to look in her direction for more than half a second at a time, and his posture screamed discomfort and avoidance. He shied away from her right until the moment she pulled him into a tight hug. Rick almost stopped her—Daryl looked utterly terrified—but then the freed prisoner broke down in her arms, clutching at his sister with abandon. Maggie didn’t cry, but stood with her eyes closed, holding Daryl as tightly as he held her, repeating “It’s ok, honey” and “You let it out.” 

Rick almost lost it just watching them. Something like gratitude overwhelmed his heart at the sight of Daryl hunched over Maggie’s pregnant belly, his face in her shoulder and her hands petting his filthy hair. Daryl’s breakdown was not quite silent; there were sniffles and gulping sobs and a bit of worrisome hyperventilating. Maggie just murmured softly to him through all of it. When they finally pulled apart, Daryl stepped back and stared at her belly, one hand hovering an inch or two away. Maggie took his hand and pressed it against the roundness, smiling as she said, “Hershel, you awake enough to give Uncle Daryl a high five for me?”

It struck Rick then, that the war was finally over and somehow, against all odds, they’d won.

It wasn’t joy exactly, but perhaps relief, that rolled over his tired mind thick and heavy. He thought he could see Daryl having a similar moment if his bewildered expression was anything to go by.

Rick motioned Father Gabriel and the others to get back inside the main building. Eric handed off the tennis shoes to Carol before tiptoeing around Daryl and Maggie, obviously trying to keep back tears of his own.

Other than Jesus, it was now just family in the courtyard. The Hilltop scout completely ignored Rick’s direction, instead leaning against the jeep with a troubled expression on his face. Sasha also stayed and called Rick off to one side, away from Maggie and Daryl’s emotional reunion. At some point she had disappeared into the building, and she’d reappeared with a stuffed duffel bag. "Supplies," she explained in a businesslike voice, despite the softness in her eyes as she glanced over at the pair. "Wasn't sure what he'd need right away so I packed a big kit: antibiotic ointment, penicillin, antivirals, vicodin, nausea meds, anti-anxiety meds and antidepressants, vitamins, bandages, and the healthiest food I could find. I know Hilltop is running dry, figured Alexandria must be too...  Rick, these assholes got a _warehouse_. It’ll take awhile to finish scavenging, sorting, and loading. This is just some stuff I thought he might need in the next few days—don’t be shy about using it, there’s plenty.”

"Smart, Sasha. Thank you.”

She waved away the gratitude. "There's fresh bread, peanut butter, some kind of jerky, bunch of fruit and veggies in jars. Cigarettes and a lighter, too--those are from Ezekiel. You got his old clothes at your place, right?”

"Not that they'll fit, but yeah." Rick leaned in to add, "Try to find Beth's old knife, Maggie can tell you what it looks like.”

Sasha glanced back covertly at where Maggie still holding Daryl’s hand against her stomach. "You think it’ll help, getting some of his stuff back? Maybe make him feel like himself again?”

Rick shrugged, feeling lost. “Honestly I don’t have the first clue what will help. He asked for the vest, maybe that's a good sign. He never had much by way of keepsakes. Lost Merle's dog tags back at Terminus.”

Daryl was no longer crying, just staring at Maggie’s belly while she told him about the pregnancy in a soft voice. As if jolted out of a trance, he moved away abruptly and yanked the marker out of his pocket, scribbling on the rusty wall  **Maggie I’m so sor** but she gently stopped his hand with hers.

“Stop that right this instant, Daryl Dixon. None of this is your fault so you have nothing to be sorry for, you hear me? Glenn-” she could say the name without flinching, but tears threatened Daryl’s eyes again at the word. She pulled him into another hug and finished, “Glenn died because of Negan. Don’t you ever think any of us blame you. And don’t you blame yourself.”

Maggie ended up leading Daryl to the car—he was out of it and had a dazed, blank look on his face. He got in the car calmly enough, at least, letting Maggie return to the Sanctuary without a fuss.

They were finally about to leave when Jesus touched Rick’s elbow. “I should go with him.”

Rick didn’t object, exactly, but it was definitely an odd request. Jesus didn’t really know Daryl. “You don’t want to stay, help divide out which supplies should go to Hilltop?”

“Maggie can handle that. Look, I don’t want to get into it now, we can talk more once Daryl’s settled. But we have some things to discuss.” The scout glanced at Daryl, whose eyes were drifting closed in the back seat of the car.

Rick shrugged and nodded before lifting himself into the driver’s seat, too worn out and focused on Daryl to care much who came with them. Carol went for the seat next to Daryl, so Jesus climbed in the passenger side. The leader gunned the engine, still feeling that almost physical need to barricade Daryl safely behind the walls of Alexandria.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place entirely in Daryl's head.

Daryl never expected to leave the Sanctuary alive. Negan had always promised that if anyone came for him (“Not that that they want you back, they're pissed as hell... I'm doing you a favor, keeping you away from 'em...”), one of his jailers would slit his throat before they could reach him. Apparently that was complete bullshit, like so many other things the Saviors’ leader had said.

Now suddenly he was riding in a car next to Carol and he had to remind himself every few moments that this was really happening. In his cell he’d been able to stay calm no matter what torment his jailers devised, yet it was a battle not to tense at every noise while sitting comfortably in an air-conditioned car. They were all going to think he’d completely lost his nerve, and what fucking use would he be to them if fucking _noises_ from fucking _potholes_ made him squirm like a little bitch?

And what would they do to him if he was no longer useful?

So he had to find a way to calm himself down. Glancing around the car under his eyelashes, he focused on each of their faces in turn. They all looked different than he remembered, which was good—it helped remind him that this wasn’t a dream or some fantasy spun from isolation and hunger. Rick was grayer and scruffier, though his beard wasn’t as overgrown as it had been that long summer before they arrived in Alexandria. The leader also had a long, nasty scar near his right wrist. Somehow Jesus didn’t look as soft as he used to, though Daryl couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had changed. His beard was a little longer and his hair was tied up on top of his head, which Daryl had never seen before. Something about those green bug-eyes looked different, too. Older. Grimmer. Carol’s hair was also longer. Her skin was tanner, and it was covered in small bruises and cuts, the worst of which had been treated with bandaids and butterfly strips.

He wanted to know what happened to her, but there wasn’t any paper and he didn’t think he should write on the car’s upholstery. Frustration simmered low in his gut.

It was a new feeling, even though Daryl hadn’t been able to speak for a long time. Because in all those months at the Sanctuary, Daryl had never  _wanted_ to talk to anyone.

His communication with his guards rarely even required nodding. They told him what to do and he did it without question. Since the operation, and especially with all the shit he’d endured after that in order to survive, he’d realized that he should have believed Shelley back in those early days, when she said it could always get worse. She’d tried to warn him, and she’d known better than anyone what Negan was capable of.

Like a complete dumbass, he’d kept fighting for weeks afterwards, and Negan responded by taking every little bit of safety and sanity in his world and plucking it away from him.

When Sasha had come bursting into his cell, Daryl hadn’t been able to place her face for several minutes. Then the night on their knees in the forest came rushing over him, what had happened to Abe and Glenn, and for a terrifying moment he thought she was there to kill him. It happened again when Maggie took him in her arms—he expected a knife to slide between his ribs, for her to finally seek payback for what he’d done to her husband.

Daryl still couldn’t understand why Maggie had just held him as he slobbered and cried over her, so overwhelmingly glad she was alive even if she did decide to cut his throat later. Hell, he would let her. It was the least he could do.

He _really_ couldn’t understand, and he felt too scared to even try to ask, why the group was taking him to Alexandria instead of butchering him with the rest of the Sanctuary... or leaving him somewhere in the woods, if they were feeling kind.

Leaning against the window, he pretended to sleep. It was a tactic he’d picked up recently after he found out that his guards would be a little more loose-lipped when they thought he was unconscious. It took a few minutes but it worked this time, too. Carol leaned into the front seat and said softly, “He’s asleep. Rick, how are we doing to… there aren’t any therapists or psychologists, Harlan is the only doctor and you just-”

“Don’t- don't blame me for that. He wasn’t… he didn’t get to _live_ after what he did.” Rick’s voice was doing that thing it did sometimes, going all steely and harsh. Daryl used to know what it meant when the leader sounded like that, but now he wasn’t sure. He just knew it sounded angry, aggressive.

“Of course he didn’t, I know that. You think I’d have done any different? Doesn’t change the fact that we are seriously unequipped to help Daryl come back from this. What are we going to _do_?”

“I don’t know, Carol. I just don’t. Maybe Morgan… he came back from some pretty serious issues, maybe he can help. The important thing is that Daryl’s safe now, we have him back. We’ll find a way to help him in time.”

Daryl relaxed slightly in his seat, relieved. For whatever reason they’d decided not to hurt him, at least for now. He didn’t understand why, or what they meant about helping him, but it didn’t matter anyhow—he just felt gratitude.

There was no way he could get any real sleep, not with three other people near enough to attack if they changed their minds about him. He let himself doze lightly, too exhausted not to get some rest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Alexandria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for ableism and slurs related to physical handicaps.

Carl’s resentment at being left behind, on this of all missions, stung badly. He was the only one who had ever been inside the Sanctuary. That was an advantage and his dad knew it, yet here he was, sitting at the gate tower to defend against an attack he knew wasn’t coming.

“Cheer up, kiddo,” Tara said, obnoxiously cheerful. “You aren’t the only one who got shafted and you don’t see me glaring a hole through the horizon.”

Carl just scowled at her, which made her flip him off with her maimed hand before returning her eyes to the road ahead.

It made sense for Tara to be stuck here; she was learning how to shoot left-handed since her right no longer had an index finger or half of a thumb. Carl’s aim had improved a lot in the past months. He was almost as good now as he’d ever been.

“Someone’s coming,” Tara said, suddenly sharp.

Carl whipped his head around to watch the glint of greenish metal. “It’s one of ours, coming in faster than normal… maybe someone got hurt?”

“They’d go to Hilltop.” Tara hummed and pulled out her binoculars. “Get the driver in your sights just in case.” Carl almost snapped that he knew how to handle himself, but before he could she continued, “Wait! Never mind, it’s your dad and… weird, Jesus is with him. Well neither of them would leave the fight unless shit was completely settled so I guess we can pop the champagne, huh?”

“Why would they come back alone, though? Where’s everyone else?”

The binoculars were still glued to Tara’s eyes when a broad grin broke out across her face. “Carl,” she said, voice a little husky, “Carl, I think they have Daryl.”

They both abandoned the tower to yank open the gate.

—

Half an hour later, Carl left Tara choking back tears on Jesus’s shoulder and stormed away down the road. He hadn’t even really greeted Daryl, just stood in horror watching the rescued man’s expressionless face as Tara held him tightly.

Tara at least had managed to ask Carol a couple of questions—yes, the muteness was permanent and no, there didn’t seem to be anything else wrong with him. Then, as usual deciding not to explain a damn thing to his son, Rick had taken Daryl’s frail, dirty arm and walked him slowly into town, Carol following behind.

That was ok, though. Carl knew someone who would probably be thrilled to fill in the details.

Aaron was on guard duty at the prison, reading in a lawn chair with his crutch propped up against the wall nearby. He had a gun out on the table within easy reach. Negan was laying on the cell’s thin mattress staring at the ceiling when Carl burst in.

“Hey Carl,” Aaron started, confused, before his voice was drowned out completely.

“Kid!” Negan boomed, a broad grin on his face as he pushed himself onto his feet. “Let me guess, you just singlehandedly finished killing-”

“What the fuck did you do to Daryl?” the teen interrupted, not wasting time, and also a little bitter than he hadn’t, in fact, been out singlehandedly slaughtering Negan’s army.

It didn’t seem possible, yet Negan’s grin got even wider, the skin of his neck folding into grotesque dimples.

“Is he back? What’s wrong with him?” Aaron asked urgently, hand coming gently to Carl’s shoulder.

But Carl ignored him, gaze glued to their prisoner.

“Aww, c’mon, try and dredge up that sense of humor we’ve been working on. Guy makes a hell of a mime, right?”

Aaron’s eyes widened and his hand fell to the table, close to the gun.

Negan continued blithely, “Oh, no one told you yet, huh gimpy? Daryl’s joining your cripple club. My surgeon ripped his throat apart.” He emphasized each of the last four words with relish.

Carl’s jaw was so tight he thought he might crack a tooth.

“Shit, Carl, don’t be mad at me. Uncle Daryl liked to get mouthy in front of my men, really didn’t leave me much of a choice. Besides, deep down, you know I did you a solid here—my god, that ridiculous fucking twang was so _annoying_. You ever seen Deliverance, kid?”

The cell was supposed to show that they were different, better than Negan, but all Carl wanted was to turn it into a torture chamber. 

He knew the bastard was baiting him so he walked away instead.

Shouts followed him down the hall. Nothing made Negan angrier than when people refused to listen to his bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl is a jerk for running off. Like, I kind of picture Aaron punching a wall and shouting after him "Fine, DON'T tell me. Also is Eric ok tho?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out how to help.

"You're going to kill him now, right?”

They were the first words Carl had spoken to him since Rick decided to leave his son safe in Alexandria.

“Who’s with Tara?” Rick asked wearily. He was sitting at the dining room table, a small collection of notebooks, notepads, pens, and pencils spread in front of him. One was open, and a pen dangled from his fingers.

“Jesus stayed.”

Rick hummed absently, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation yet again, especially with his own son. Especially when he was starting to agree with the kid. “Carl… it’s Maggie's call. She and Sasha, they know what they want. You really believe we ought to take that from them?"

"They don't have to be here," the teenager gritted out. "It's- they’re wrong, Dad. Glenn and Abe weren’t the only- Rosita wouldn’t have wanted this… and what he did to Eugene… and he killed Tobin as a fucking _joke_. I can't believe you don't want to-"

“Of course I want to,” Rick snapped, before pausing to cool down. He didn’t want to shout at his son over this; they’d been at each other’s throats so much already. “But it’s more complicated than that.” He paused again, cocking his head. “Guessing you talked to him, huh?”

Carl scowled, glancing away. _Damn it, Aaron_ , Rick thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. Supposedly the boy wasn’t allowed in the prison.

“I shot the surgeon who did it. Harlan’s brother, guy who hurt Daryl.” Carl looked at him again, chilling approval in his gaze. Rick couldn’t blame him. “But Negan—that’s been decided. Maybe if Daryl disagrees then Maggie would have to reconsider, but that’s… I think we gotta wait awhile before we tell him we’ve got the bastard here.”

“Lie? To Daryl?”

At first Rick didn’t answer. He simply stared at the little stack of notebooks on the table, feeling adrift. There was supposed to be a list in front of him but he’d only been able to think of three items for it so far, and number one was gathering notebooks and pens to ensure Daryl could always, always communicate. The leader hadn’t even added a medical checkup yet, not knowing who he would ask to perform it.

After awhile Carl shifted his weight, calling back his father’s attention. Rick cleared his throat. Might as well cross item two off the list. “Daryl’s gonna need time, maybe a lot of it. The things they did to him… I know you saw some while you were there. Seems it got worse and worse the longer he held out on joining them. And he isn’t the same man-” his throat caught. He forced his voice to sound strong again. “But he’s gonna get better, he just needs time and he needs us. Family. And to start, I wanted to ask you… I think- I’m pretty sure he’d be more comfortable up in the attic. And I’m sorry, Carl, I know you like it up there, you just got settled and the basement’s nothing to write home about, but-”

“Yeah, course,” Carl replied easily, as if it was nothing. Rick smiled tightly, a flare of pride going through him. He knew his son loved that room.

Their last house had burned to the ground during the war so they lived in a smaller duplex now, with Aaron and Eric in the other half. Carl had taken the spacious attic, leaving only the basement free. The basement was a decent size but it was always a few degrees colder than than the rest of the house, with narrow windows that never seemed to catch the sun.

After seeing Daryl kneeling in that disgusting cell, Rick wanted him somewhere bright and warm. The attic had two skylights and the walls were painted a soft shade of yellow.

“Where’s Daryl now? I didn’t really say, uh, anything to him when you guys drove in.”

“Basement bathroom, getting cleaned up. Carol’s with him. I’m supposed to be setting things up, figuring out what he needs, but,” Rick waved a hand at the list, "I haven't gotten far." He got this way sometimes, paralyzed by unexpected tragedy.

Reading the notebook over his shoulder, Carl huffed. “You got enough notebooks and pens to last a year and I’ll start moving my stuff now. Number three... just says 'Jesus.'”

“He implied he could help somehow. No clue what he has in mind.”

“I’ll get him when the attic’s ready. Come help. You'll think of more later, and he’ll probably need to sleep before anything else anyway.”

True enough. Rick stood and followed the teenager upstairs. “Yeah. Looking at him, it's obvious a bed and some good meals are top priority. I just… it’s naive, but I thought he’d still be _Daryl_ , you know? Always seemed like nothing could break him.” He surreptitiously wiped a tear from his eye, not wanting Carl to see. "This is- this is what we focus on for now, ok? Negan isn’t going anywhere and we’re a lot safer today than we were yesterday. People need to heal, to rest. Let’s get Daryl feeling more like himself, figure out trade agreements with the other communities… build this place back up again. Hell, you should spend some time with Enid.”

Climbing the stairs, Carl shot Rick an unreadable look, like the leader had said something completely ridiculous.

\--

They had just finished dropping the last of Carl’s few belongings down onto the hallway floor when Carol pounded up the stairs.

“Don’t- don’t panic, Rick, but Daryl… he hurt himself. On purpose.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl is trying to get settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self-injury.

Daryl couldn’t remember how to be normal.

He stood watching as Carol gathered some of his old clothes for him, feeling like he should help but not moving. It seemed like he couldn’t do anything anymore without someone ordering him first.

Carol barely looked at him, and when she did it was all wrong. He couldn’t quite picture her expression from before but he knew it wasn’t the mix of disappointment and fear he saw there now.

They could see it too, the abnormality he’d become. Tara had, and with her big awkward heart her reaction was to hug him and cry over him. Like Maggie, she had somehow forgiven him, or maybe no one had told her who got her girlfriend killed. Carl, on the other hand… that boy hadn’t forgotten a thing. The hatred on his face had nearly ripped Daryl's heart out.

If Carl didn’t want him there, Daryl doubted Rick would tolerate him for long, and if Rick didn’t want him there…

Knowing that a panic attack would just freak Carol out even more, Daryl tried to focus. Negan had _lied_. Rick and Carol had fed him, they were letting him wash. It wasn't a trick; Rick wasn't like Negan, if Rick was going to kill him he would have just done it outright. So they didn’t all hate him. Of course some would, but Carol, Maggie, and Tara didn’t. Rick didn’t, for now. It was more than Daryl had ever expected.

And besides, Daryl was _out_. Panicking now was ridiculous. Hell, Maggie was alive. The _baby_ was alive. He teared up just remembering the feel of his hand against Maggie’s warm belly.

He’d never cried this much in his life, not even in the cell. Made no sense, turning into a pussy now. He didn’t recognize himself. Shit, he couldn’t even stand right. How did he used to hold his arms? He’d been cuffed almost constantly since the last time he punched a Savior, maybe three weeks ago. Even Negan agreed that the asshole deserved it. Son of a bitch got the iron, but Daryl got his only means of defending himself permanently locked behind his back.

Not permanently. Not permanently. He was out. And Jackson, the sick fuck, was probably dead now, along with the rest of those sorry pricks.

Lost in memories, Daryl jumped about a foot in the air when Carol asked, “You got a belt, Pookie?”

He cringed at her tone. Rick and Carol kept doing that, addressing him like they expected a response. _Pookie can't fucking talk anymore_ , he thought at her back, even daring to roll his eyes.

He just shook his head respectfully when she finally did look up, though.

—

Carol let him shut the bathroom door to shower. Daryl even turned the lock, just for the hell of it.

The bathroom was only a bit bigger than his cell, but he found it didn’t bother him to be closed inside. The cell wouldn’t have been half bad if only the lock was on his side of the door.

Standing in the shower, Daryl startled when the warm water hit him. He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, about about the charmed life they led in Alexandria, yet he’d expected cold nonetheless.

The soap surprised him, too—the smell was overpoweringly floral, almost nauseating him. Still, he scrubbed himself thoroughly three times and washed his hair twice before getting out and drying off with a soft, fluffy, clean towel. His old duds were shockingly baggy. He knew he’d lost weight but it felt like even his bone structure must have shrunk. The pants would hardly stay up. He rolled them twice at the waist. Even the thought of trying to ask Rick for a belt using gestures and pointing exhausted him. He was going to have to start carrying paper around or something.

Brushing his teeth had never been this reviving before. Being clean felt so fucking good. Carol had laid out shaving cream and an electric razor, so after wiping a hand across the mirror to clear the steam he lathered up, leaving just the goatee. He trimmed that down some, too, then rinsed.

His old face hovered in front of him like black magic, clean for the first time in months. There were some differences—he was thinner, grayer, bruised, and his hair was downright girly now—but Daryl Dixon stood unmistakably before him, vest and all.

His heart pounded as he stared at the reflection, his face impudent against the pink walls of the room. It stared back, like that asshole still existed, had any right to exist anymore after everything that had happened.

So Daryl threw a punch. The glass shattered but didn’t break so he lashed out again, again, at least five or six times. Pain and adrenaline flooded his system, roaring in his ears. He dug his nails behind out one of the larger shards and pulled it out, up against cheek, thoughts racing wildly. He’d rather a cigarette or an iron—

The door opened and Jesus stepped in, Carol behind him. Both were pale as ghosts.

Closing his eyes, Daryl dropped the shard of glass just as Jesus rushed forward to take it from him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm going to scare people away... swear to God, the whole fic isn't just going to be Daryl!whump.
> 
> Also I know the punching a mirror thing is a cliche, but in this case I decided it's a cliche for a reason.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus tries to help.

Jesus stood by the basement steps, stomach clenching painfully, watching Daryl pace. The older man’s bleeding knuckles didn’t unnerve the scout, but the look on his face in that bathroom had: it had been entirely blank as he held the large, jagged shard of glass near his eye. If anything Daryl appeared more upset now, biting his lip and taking agitated strides around the dumpy room.

Before rushing out, Carol had told Jesus (ordered him, really) to keep Daryl in the room and away from the broken mirror. The idea of having to guard or restrain this man who had just been freed hours ago from his dirty little cell in the Sanctuary was nauseating, but thankfully Daryl didn’t force his hand. Instead the former prisoner moved restlessly in a semicircle, clenching his cut hand into a fist occasionally, glancing at the stairs often but making no motion towards them.

“Is he down there alone?” Rick barked from somewhere above them.

Carol answered but Jesus couldn’t hear exactly what else was said. Daryl seemed to catch some of it, if his wince was any indication. He slumped heavily against a wood-paneled wall and slid down to the floor, knees drawn tight against his chest. The hideous blankness from before worked its way back into his features.

“First aid kit?” Jesus asked, aiming to distract. Daryl startled at being addressed. “Um, do you know where one is, a first aid kit?”

Daryl shook his head, brushing his injured hand through his wet hair. A few drops of blood smeared into the long locks, and others fell to his baggy jeans and the ugly brown carpet as he brought his hand back to his knee. Daryl wasn’t careful about the movement at all, as if the pain and blood and brokenness didn’t even register with him.

Suppressing a shudder, Jesus kept trying. “That’s right, you didn’t live here before, did you? Rick’s old house burned down near the beginning of the war. They rescued some stuff, like your clothes… place is uninhabitable, though.” Daryl made no effort to respond, not even with a shrug, but his face was at least turned in Jesus’s direction. “I’ve been staying in Alexandria pretty often recently. With Aaron and Eric—you’re friends with them, yeah?” He doesn’t get any sort of acknowledgment at all. He steamrolls ahead anyhow. “They live next door and have a ton of extra space, so I usually crash there. It also helps that they don’t have a toddler screaming at the top of her lungs every morning at 4 a.m. on the dot.”

Daryl finally made eye contact at that, but the conversation, such as it was, was interrupted by Rick practically throwing himself down the stairs. He held a first aid kit and was followed closely by Carl with a broom and dustpan.

“You ok, brother? What happened?”

Something changed in Daryl’s face at the word ‘brother,’ but Jesus only caught a glimpse of his expression before the redneck hung his head low over his lap.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Rick knelt in front of his friend. “Just need to know what’s going on, is all.”

“He needs a notebook,” Jesus reminded quietly.

“Upstairs, kitchen table,” the leader replied, already examining the cuts on Daryl’s hand. “Carl, could you-”

“I’ll go,” Jesus said, pushing off from the wall.

It only took him a moment to fetch the writing supplies, grabbing a pocket-sized black leather Moleskin and a fancy fountain pen. He couldn’t help but notice his name written in the only open notebook at the table, and he read Rick’s little to-do list with concern.

Rick Grimes, who had always had plan after back-up plan during the war, was floundering. They were all expert fighters now, but none of them knew how to return home from those horrors—and Daryl would likely have a longer, harder journey back than anyone else.

Thoughtful, Jesus climbed back down to the basement. The scene had grown cloyingly intimate in just the short amount of time he was upstairs. Rick murmured comfort as he used tweezers to pull a few tiny shards of glass from Daryl’s knuckles. Carol had rejoined them and kept spontaneously patting Daryl’s other hand and shoulder.

Jesus knew he _should_ find the tenderness on display heartwarming. Instead he felt weirdly uneasy. It had been a long time since he witnessed a moment this overtly, openly emotional, aside from people grieving for dead or dying loved ones. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to be sentimental anymore.

He was even more surprised that Rick and Carol remembered so readily. Rick was a ruthless, merciless fighter, and besides some brief moments with Judith, Jesus hadn’t really seen any other side of the man in the months since they rebelled against Negan. And Carol rose beyond ruthlessness at times, becoming something closer to bloodthirsty when a member of their group was in harm’s way. Seeing the pair take care of Daryl with so much obvious affection was surreal.

Daryl tolerated the physical contact well, which had to be a good sign. He was tense but didn’t shy away from Carol’s clinginess or Rick’s literal handholding as the leader gently brushed his injuries with a harsh-smelling antiseptic wipe.

If anything the redneck looked surprised rather than fearful, gaze wavering uncertainly between his two friends.

Jesus tried not to stare, but he couldn’t parse that expression. If basic first aid and simple human comfort surprised Daryl, what kind of treatment had he been expecting?

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus decides he's all in.

The scout escaped the basement shortly after that, volunteering to take Daryl’s belongings up to his new room. Carl latched onto the idea, too. He’d finished sweeping and was standing awkwardly behind Carol, watching as his dad tried to pry information from the redneck’s stubbornly immobile fingers.

All of Daryl’s worldly possessions fit into two small trash bags, so it felt more than a little ridiculous when Jesus and Carl each grabbed one light little bundle to carry. Jesus followed Carl upstairs anyway, though. He was virtually a stranger to Daryl—hopefully the reserved man would open up with only his closest friends in the room.

They paused on the second floor landing to tidy Carl’s belongings, which had apparently been dropped haphazardly into the hallway from the attic room’s trapdoor. When they’d finished bundling everything together in various pillowcases and sheets, the teenager asked out of the blue, “So were you a psychologist or something, before?”

“What? No, not at all. I worked part time at a bookstore, taught self-defense classes to get by. Why do you ask?”

Carl frowned, scowling a little. “My dad said you could help Daryl.”

“Ah. Well. I hope I can, at least a little, but not as a counselor. I’ll talk to Rick about it soon.” Reluctant to spread his idea around before Daryl even agreed to try it, Jesus continued, “I’m going to poke around up there for a minute, make sure there isn’t anything sharp in the room.” He began to climb the ladder.

“That’s smart.” The kid seemed annoyed not to have thought of it first. Jesus smirked, keeping his face turned away.

Carl started to follow him into the attic, but the scout stopped him. “I’ve got this. Get back down there in case they need anything. Maybe bring Daryl a water bottle and an apple or something. I’ll get things ready up here, then I’ll need to head out… I have to talk to Aaron, sooner the better.”

“He’s at the prison until 4:00.” Carl handed up Daryl’s other bag, then hovered for a moment before he settled on saying, “Come back later, though. So you can talk to my dad.”

“Of course.” Jesus smiled down at him reassuringly and the boy disappeared down the stairs.

The scout went over the attic with a fine-tooth comb. Truthfully, though, there wasn’t much to check. One side of the room was furnished with a full-sized mattress on the floor, plus a small lamp and an alarm clock plugged in near the head of the bed and an empty waste basket beside them; the other side was just as spartan, with a built-in bookshelf, an old-fashioned braided rug, and two navy beanbag chairs.

There were no paintings or posters on the walls. Jesus wondered what kind of decorations a guy like Daryl would appreciate. He mostly knew the redneck through the others’ stories about him, a badass biker with perfect aim and a heart of gold. Jesus supposed he’d go for taxidermy and glamour shots of souped-up motorcycles. Probably calendars full of half-naked women, too. The scout didn’t really care, he just hoped they made the place more homey soon, whatever _homey_ meant to Daryl.

The bed looked cozy, at least, shoved into a corner under the slanting roof. After lifting the mattress and feeling for slits in the lining to make sure Carl or a previous resident hadn’t left any weapons hidden beneath or inside of it, Jesus carefully straightened out the crisp white sheets and soft blue and green quilt again. Then he deftly unscrewed the lightbulb from the bedside lamp. The pendant lamp hanging high from the ceiling would serve just fine for now. A glance over the few books Carl had left on a shelf for Daryl, three graphic novels and some Westerns, completed his search--the bookshelf was empty otherwise.

Jesus reluctantly started in on the two trash bags next. He expected it to feel intrusive, going through another person’s things, but aside from the fact that he found a few watermelon Jolly Ranchers scattered through the bags, Daryl’s belongings seemed entirely impersonal. Hell, maybe the bare, undecorated room was perfect for him after all.

The candies went on a shelf right at eye level, along with two little round stones that looked like they came from the bottom of a creek. Daryl's idea of a keepsake? On the next shelf down Jesus unpacked a plain silver whistle, a small flashlight, a holster, a canteen, and a coil of climbing rope. Crossbow bolts, a small silver lighter, and a leatherman multitool joined the light bulb for confiscation. Since there wasn’t a dresser or closet he folded the redneck's wardrobe, consisting of two changes of clothes and a couple extra pairs of socks and underwear, and set them neatly on the bottom shelf. Besides those basics, the man only owned a thin jacket and a few brightly-colored bandanas. They'd have to get him more layers before winter set in.

Lastly Jesus pulled out a small collection of books, the pages of which had been crushed and bent from being jostled around with other objects in the bag. The intrusive feeling he’d expected when he began unpacking overtook him with a vengeance the instant he recognized Daryl’s slightly childish handwriting in the margins of a book titled _Treating Survivors of Child Abuse_.

God damn it. Jesus sighed and bit his lip, chin sinking to his chest for a moment. He closed the book immediately and placed it carefully beside the others.

When he left to find Aaron a few minutes later, he had already begun mentally composing a to-do list of his own.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Family meeting.

A few Alexandrians stopped by over the course of the afternoon, hoping to hear from Rick himself that the war was over and their loved ones would all be home safe and sound before dinnertime.

Mostly he had Carl send their neighbors away with just a brief update on the raid. He knew that no matter what he told them, these remnants of his community—those too old, young, sick, or injured to fight—wouldn’t really believe their side had won until the fighters returned.

Rick sympathized, he did. He wouldn’t feel whole again until Michonne was beside him. She had led him through the paralyzing loss of Glenn and Abe and the constant terror of knowing Daryl was a powerless hostage, then through his guilt over Eugene and his horror over Rosita and his doubt about putting so many innocents at risk by waging war.

Maybe he wouldn’t feel like Daryl was evaporating before his eyes, if Michonne were here to help him see it differently. Talking quietly to his brother, rephrasing the same cautious question a dozen ways— _why did you hurt yourself?_ —only served to remind Rick of how much he needed her.

He only took a break when Nabila and Kiaan, the older couple who were watching Judith, brought her by to say hello. They easily agreed to keep her for a few more days. The father felt guilty for even asking, but until Michonne was home, until Daryl was more stable, until they were sure they’d succeeded in ridding the earth of the Saviors, until he knew Maggie and the others were safe, until he got one full fucking night of sleep—until then, everything around him felt too precarious. He feared the slightest change would topple him over, and after the long war, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up again.

—

When the leader returned to the basement, a little refreshed by Judith’s toddler antics, Daryl was asleep. Apparently he had been so exhausted that he’d curled up right there on the basement floor, back pressed against the wall, and crashed.

Gritting his teeth, Rick tried not to think about how comfortable the thin carpet must have felt compared to the bare, damp cement at the Sanctuary.

Carol and Carl had gotten nowhere in Rick’s absence. Getting used to the notebook would take time, but that wasn’t the issue here. Daryl, with pure Dixon stubbornness, repeated the same answers over and over: **I’m sorry** _,_ and **won’t happen again** _,_ and his old standby, **I’m fine** _._

Carl settled in with some comics near the sleeping man. None of them wanted to call it what it was, setting a guard, but they all seemed to be on the same page that they couldn’t leave Daryl by himself again. They weren’t losing him, especially not to his own demons. Until they could figure out what had set him off, someone would keep an eye out.

“I know that face. He’s embarrassed,” Carol said wisely as they climbed the stairs to prepare dinner. “Maybe over his new… disability, and definitely over punching that mirror.”

She was on to something, but Rick figured _ashamed_ came closer to the mark.

—

It didn’t take long for his family to start gathering. No one called a meeting; Rick knew it wasn’t necessary. Everyone who wasn’t out at the Sanctuary would come without needing to be called.

Apparently that number included Jesus now. He’d been loitering on the porch for awhile, scribbling at a notebook with a couple of books beside him. At some point Aaron joined him. When Tara finally pounded her way up the steps, the last to arrive, she, Aaron, and Jesus walked into the house together.

Rick stood and clasped Aaron’s hand in greeting. “Guys, hey. I should have found you earlier. Things were fine when we left, nothing to do now but wait. Heath’s monitoring the walkies. Last I saw, Eric and Cyndie-”

“Jesus told us,” Aaron interrupted, smiling warmly. “He also told me you saved Eric’s ass out there today. Thank you.”

The leader shrugged the gratitude away. He only vaguely remembered it, pushing Eric aside before gunning down his attacker. “I think they’ll be gone overnight. And Cyndie may be gone awhile longer. Lots to cart back to Oceanside.”

Carol came in from the kitchen balancing three bowls of plain pasta with a few Hilltop soybeans mixed in.

“That’s a lot of food,” Aaron commented, setting down his crutch and reaching for his dish.

“The Saviors were sitting on the mother lode,” Rick said, taking his bowl. “Even sharing between the four communities, we’ll be in good shape for awhile. No need to scrimp tonight.”

Carol half-smiled at Aaron. “There’s canned pears for dessert, too.”

“It’s a feast,” Tara joked half-heartedly, sitting cross-legged next to Aaron on the couch.

Holding their bowls close to their faces, they all scarfed their food before talking. Even Aaron, once so polite, barely paused for breath. It was habit now. Rick wondered if soldiers in the old world had done the same, knowing they could be called away to fight at any moment.

After a few minutes Carol excused herself to carry a dish down to Carl. Everyone but Jesus had finished, and the scout was on his last few bites of the bland but filling meal.

Tara opened the conversation. “I, um, I asked Suzette to bring by some smaller clothes, since he’s lost so much weight. You know, jeans, black shirts. Sleeves optional.” She smiled sadly.

“That’s good,” Rick nodded encouragingly. Such a small thing, but it made him feel better in that moment.

They would figure out how to help Daryl through this. They’d handle it, like always, together.

“Still asleep,” Carol said as she reentered the room. “Carl says he startled awake once but dropped off again pretty quick.” She paused, hands on her hips, before turning to Rick. “Got any alcohol?”

“Don’t know. Maybe some wine? Check above the microwave.”

Jesus shifted back in his wooden chair and crossed his arms. “Are you sure he’s really asleep?”

“What? Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Just… he wasn’t, earlier. In the car.”

“What?” Rick repeated stupidly, staring.

“When you and Carol started talking about him in the car this morning, Daryl was only pretending to sleep, at least at first. I’ve done it before, lots of times. It’s a good way to listen in on people. That first day I met you and Daryl, actually, that’s how I…” The scout stopped talking when he saw Rick’s darkening expression.

Carol rounded the corner with a bottle of red wine and two cans of pears balanced in her grip. “You’re saying he doesn’t trust us.”

Rick dropped his head into his hands, wondering for the hundredth time what had happened to his brother in that hellhole.

“It could have been me. I mean, we didn’t know each other well when he was taken,” Jesus said, apologetic.

There’s quiet in the room. Carol handed around the tinned pears to split between them.

“How’s he been doing now that he’s home?” Tara asked timidly, doe eyes fixed on Rick.

“Not good. The muteness is the least of it, bad as that sounds. We don’t know what else they did to him, and he’s- he won’t talk to me. Or Carol.” He frowned, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, I didn’t mean ‘talk.’ He won’t… write, I guess. And earlier, he hurt himself. He was in the bathroom for a shower, punched a mirror, and then…” he looked to Carol for help as she flitted from person to person pouring wine.

“Jesus picked the lock. When we came in, he was holding a piece of glass to his face. Like he wanted to take his own eye out.” She stopped talking abruptly, setting the wine bottle heavily on the coffee table and sitting in the faded armchair. Rick handed her the can of pears after taking one last bite.

Tara said nothing, but a couple of tears fell down her face. Aaron pulled her firmly into his arms. “He was locked in the bathroom alone?” the man asked over her head, eyebrows drawn.

Pursing her lips, Carol responded without defensiveness, “I thought some independence might be good, help him feel in control again. It’s something I’ve… heard, before. People who have been abused need to take control back, make their own decisions.”

Rick nodded, remembering his brief Special Victims training. “It’s a good notion, just gotta be careful how we implement it from now on.” He turned to Jesus. “I gotta ask, you said at the Sanctuary that you should stick close. Why?”

“Ah. I’ve been thinking about a few things, actually, but I guess the big one is, I could- I know ASL. Which, you know, might help a lot. At least, I think it might. If Daryl is willing to learn, and, well, if some of you are, too. And I know it will take time, and we have to prioritize surviving, growing food, things like that, but even if I just teach him some basics-”

Aaron put a stop to the rambling. “That’s… that could be a godsend for him. Did you know someone who was deaf?”

Rick had been stalling on what the hell the letters ASL meant. At Aaron’s question, his brain caught up to the conversation.

American Sign Language.

There would be conversations again, easy banter and Daryl’s quick, snarky asides. No more waiting for the man to write out his thoughts in that fucking notebook.

“Of course we’ll learn. We can make time,” he said firmly. “Looks like you’re moving to Alexandria, Jesus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I unintentionally built up to this point as if Jesus could miraculously fix everything--nope, he's just going to try to help Daryl communicate a little more smoothly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Jesus is a deep thinker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: I killed off Rosita instead of Sasha in this AU.
> 
> Just a short update for now, but I think I'm finally getting past the mental block I had on this story... thanks @AJWmagickl, @JamesJohnEye, and @AbigailHT for talking through it with me <3

A couple of hours after leaving Rick’s place Jesus sat cross-legged on Aaron and Eric’s couch, surrounded by books, and admitted to himself that he might be in over his head.

It didn’t help that the Alexandrians had grabbed onto the plan of teaching Daryl ASL with a stranglehold. The group discussion in Rick’s living room hadn’t exactly been productive, and giving Daryl a better way to communicate was one of the few concrete plans they had to help him. Rick wanted Jesus to begin right away and Carol thought it would take at least a couple of weeks of getting acclimated before Daryl would work with him, so it had somehow been decided without much input from Jesus himself that he wouldn’t even return to Hilltop to pack his things. Not that he minded--he was used to traveling light and going without, and he’d be able to send a list of what he wanted from his trailer with whoever went to fetch Alex.

Christ. Alex. The nurse was a better choice for giving Daryl a check-up than Harlan or Paloma, the former combat medic in Oceanside, but Jesus honestly wasn’t looking forward to seeing him. He wasn’t going to take Jesus’s decision to stay in Alexandria for the foreseeable future very well.

Come to that, Jesus wasn’t sure how Maggie and Sasha would take the news, either.

Aaron came in from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, the hot beverage sloshing dangerously with the man’s heavy limp. “What’s all this?” the taller man asked, handing off a mug and sitting in a worn recliner across the coffee table.

“I asked Tara to bring them. She said her, um… her girlfriend who-”

“Denise.”

“Right. The psychiatrist. I figure I’ll be spending a lot of time with Daryl, I should read up.”

Aaron reached over and picked up one of the textbooks Jesus had already skimmed and set aside, looking at the cover and flipping idly to the table of contents. “You think learning about psychology will help? If he’s going to talk to anyone it’ll be Carol or Rick, maybe Michonne.”

“So I gathered,” Jesus replied, thinking back on their hours-long conversation in Rick’s living room. He’d scratched searching for a therapist off of his to-do list when he realized that even if they scrounged up a qualified mental health professional from one of the other communities, no one believed Daryl would agree to talk about his imprisonment with anyone outside of his family—and even that seemed improbable. “But look, I marked a few passages that might be relevant so Rick and Carol can read them, too. One of these even has a section on working with POWs. It’s all guesswork, I don’t know what will be useful, but it can’t hurt to do some research. Look, the biggest risks are PTSD, depressive disorders, and generalized anxiety…”

Aaron smiled and glanced at the passage Jesus was holding out, though he didn’t look convinced. “It’s smart. Very _you_. But I think maybe we all know more about trauma now than the people who wrote those textbooks ever did. And Rick and Carol know Daryl, that might be even more important.”

Jesus shrugged, allowing the point, but he continued reading regardless.

The two friends sat in silence for a few minutes, Jesus marking up the book in his lap and Aaron sipping tea and looking out the window, before Aaron spoke again. “Right after the Turn… Eric and I hid in our condo for weeks longer than we should have. We kept scavenging and coming right back even though we knew it wasn’t safe to stay so close to the city anymore. For awhile there we took really stupid risks because we needed that familiarity.”

“I remember. I went looking for my sister right away, as soon as the phones went down. I, um, I stayed in her apartment for two weeks even though she wasn’t there.” Jesus had known she was dead—he’d found her in her office and buried her in the courtyard—but the whole world had become a fucked-up tilt-a-whirl and her apartment felt like home.

Aaron continued, “I’m guessing Daryl feels that now. This community, Rick, Carl, Carol and the rest of his family—that will help him heal more than anything else. At least I hope so.” He paused and took another gulp of his tea. “Your sister, was she the person you knew who used sign language?”

Jesus nodded reluctantly. “She had cerebral palsy. We’re, we were twins.” He hadn’t spoken to anyone about Paige in years. When the plague first hit, survivors talked about that sort of thing all the time—who they’d lost, who they were still hoping to find—but no one did it anymore. “You’re lucky, to have been with Eric when it happened.”

The remark had it’s intended effect; it changed the subject. “I know. We’ve been- we’ve been stupidly lucky.” Aaron looked back out the window. “He didn’t even want this war, and now he’s out hunting down Saviors in the woods in the middle of the night.”

Much as Jesus wanted to know that Eric and all the others were ok, his worry was mostly reserved for Maggie. Her pregnancy was pushing into its third trimester and she was still out there leading the final charge with Michonne and Ezekiel. The thought made his fingers twitch, wishing he was with her.

“Eric’ll be ok. He can handle himself,” he said at last.

Aaron surprised Jesus by laughing a little. “I know. That’s terrifying in a completely different way. He’s become a soldier, this guy who used to drag me to anti-war protests on the Mall on Saturdays when I just wanted to sleep in. Sometimes I don’t recognize either of us.”

As they sank into silence, the scout wondered if Aaron even realized the contradiction he’d laid bare—he hoped family and familiar surroundings would help Daryl, but the war had changed everything so drastically that some people and buildings would be almost unrecognizable in their postwar state.

No, Jesus wasn’t optimistic that merely being back home would heal the redneck, and truthfully he wasn’t all that hopeful that anything in the deceased psychiatrist’s books would help, either.

Still, he remained on the couch reading and underlining and starring passages long after Aaron stood to go to sleep, hoping it would do some good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Mall = the National Mall in Washington D.C., not a shopping center ;)  
> POW = prisoner of war
> 
> I am doing actual fucking research on cerebral palsy, mental health issues in POWs, and sign language. It's awesome. Sometimes I get stuck just reading interesting articles on deaf culture.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the day.

It was late by the time Daryl heard footsteps on the basement steps again, and he realized he was relieved someone was coming to fetch him. That was new, relief. Footsteps approaching his cell had always signaled the end of safety at the Sanctuary.

But tonight Carl had fallen asleep on the bed with a comic book on his chest shortly after Daryl woke up from his own exhaustion-fueled nap, and Daryl couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a set-up, like they wanted to test him, see what he would do alone in the room with a defenseless kid. The idea rang false—he knew Rick would never play with Carl’s safety—but nevertheless he’d tried to sit perfectly still on the same spot of carpet where he’d fallen asleep. He wanted someone to come tell him where he was supposed to be and what he could or couldn’t do there.

Even getting up to use the bathroom had felt like an infraction, though after holding it for nearly an hour he’d finally forced himself to stop being such a little bitch and used the damn toilet. Surely Rick wouldn’t punish him for having to piss.

 _Rick wouldn’t punish me_ , Daryl had thought to himself afterwards, as if trying the idea on for size.

Then for awhile he’d tried to listen to the people upstairs talk about him, but that was mostly useless. He caught his name and a few phrases but couldn’t make sense of anything concrete besides one moment when Carol said something slightly shrill that definitely included the words “Rick” and “control freak.” Daryl felt a small flicker of amusement at her tone. Whatever they were fighting about, she was probably winning.

Finally Rick appeared at the bottom of the basement stairs and, after a brief pause, smiled at him. Daryl recognized that look on the other man: pure relief. Rick was happy, relieved to see him just like he was to see Rick, and that… that was _right_. Somewhere bone deep Daryl knew it, and a corner of his mouth twitched up in return.

Gaze shifting to Carl, Rick stepped into the room and moved the comic book to the side table, then pulled a blanket over the boy. Next Rick jerked his head towards the steep basement steps, and Daryl stood to follow, clutching his notebook and pen.

“Hungry?” the leader asked a few moments later when they reached the ground floor.

Without thinking about it, Daryl shook his head. He held the notebook against his chest, pen trapped in a tight fist. His hand hurt from punching that mirror.

Rick stopped walking. “Daryl…” Then after a long pause, he simply asked, “You sure?”

Daryl nodded.

He was only a little hungry.

—

They climbed into the attic of the narrow little house and Rick gestured around the plain room. “This ok?”

Daryl wanted to snort, to write out something sarcastic—he’d just been freed that morning from a fucking concrete cell—but he contained himself and merely nodded once instead. Sitting on the mattress on the floor, he opened his notebook right away, already knowing what he wanted to ask. **Done gossiping about me like a bunch of old biddies?** It was normal, he thought. Something he’d have said before.

“Yeah, we’re done. For now,” Rick said with a different smile, awkward and strained. Not what Daryl had been aiming for. “Just coming up with solutions.” The leader was wandering around the attic room, looking at items on the shelves. He picked up Daryl’s old climbing rope and frowned at it.

Daryl fidgeted with his notebook and Rick’s ice blue eyes stuck on his hands for a long moment. He stopped wandering the room and came to sit on the bed next to the former prisoner, rope still in his hands.

“You’ve gotta let me know what’s going on in that head of yours, alright?” Rick said. “You’re safe here. You get that, don’t you? You’re safe from now on.”

 **ok** , Daryl wrote, then looked up through his overlong bangs for a moment before continuing, **that mean your letting me stay?**

“What?”

Daryl underlined the words.

“Of course you’re fucking staying. Where else would you go?”

Daryl just shrugged. Rick frowned at him uneasily and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why would you think- why would anyone make you leave?”

Daryl shrugged again, but this time Rick raised his eyebrows and tapped on the notebook. The older man didn’t know what to write, though. He’d just needed to ask, couldn’t let himself get used to this—used to these people he loved, the meals and the uninterrupted sleep and the _safety_ —if it was going to be torn away from him again.

“We need to ta- _communicate_ about things, Daryl. Ok? And I know that doesn’t come naturally to you…” Rick hung his head, hand massaging one side of his neck. “Just try. Because you aren’t making a lot of sense right now, and I, I need your help.” Rick’s voice was hoarse as he spoke that last word.

Rick was still looking down, his shoulders hunched. It hurt. Daryl couldn’t understand why Rick was so upset, but it hurt to see it regardless. **Im sorry** , Daryl wrote, and held it so Rick would see it when he looked.

“No, don’t- don’t apologize. Just... believe me, alright? You’re staying right here.”

Daryl didn’t respond for a long time, toying with the pen. He knew Rick wasn’t a liar and he’d already thought that if Rick didn’t want him in Alexandria, he’d be in the woods somewhere, or dead on the side of the road, or ( _please God no_ ) back at the Sanctuary. Finally he wrote, **can’t stay if it’s just you**

“What does that mean?”

**Carl and Mishone ok with it?**

“Christ. _Yes_ , Daryl. You can ask ‘em, they’ll tell you. We’ll ask Carl tomorrow morning. Michonne’ll say the same thing when she gets home. Getting you back is all we’ve wanted since the day that bastard took you.”

Hesitant, Daryl nodded, something bright and confusing oozing through his chest.

“Ok. We’ll ask ‘em tomorrow.” Rick stood. “I was, uh. I mean, I’m going to sleep here. If that’s- yeah, I’m sleeping up here. Be right back up. You get on into bed.”

He took the rope with him down the ladder. Daryl didn't know what that was about and didn't much care, either. He toed off the tennis shoes Eric had found for him, set his vest on a chair, and crawled onto the mattress in his clothes, laying on top of the quilt. A moment later Rick came back into the room without the rope, stripped down to boxers and his undershirt, and waited beside the bed until Daryl scooted closer to the wall to let him in, placing Rick squarely between himself and the trapdoor.

Despite knowing that he was still being guarded, Daryl managed to fall asleep after about half an hour. Rick was still awake when he finally drifted off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Andy Lincoln describes Rick as a control freak in a couple of interviews, so Carol's opinion is borrowed from him.  
> 2) Really, when would any of them have learned to spell each other's names?  
> 3) No, Daryl's not all better... not by a long shot.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast I

“Two panic attacks,” Rick told Carol the next morning over coffee—honest-to-god coffee. She had swiped it from some Savior’s bedroom. They were having an indulgent breakfast: coffee plus fresh bread with a thin smear of peanut butter and more canned pears. “Two that I woke up for, anyhow.”

“I’ll stay tonight,” Carol said. “No offense, but you could sleep through a hurricane.”

Rick nodded absently and continued, “He let me help him through them, timing his breathing with mine. And after the second one I decided to push my luck a little, asked if he’d had trouble sleeping at the Sanctuary, and he actually responded. They blared some pop song on repeat when he first got there, used sleep deprivation as torture. And they did it again after they took Rosita.” He pressed his lips together. “Sleeping might be a problem for awhile. I’m gonna ask Alex about medication for it.”

Carol nodded, eyes tracing his tight grimace and clenched fists. “They’re dead now, Rick. We won.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, taking another bite of bread.

They ate their breakfast in silence for awhile. It was early, sun just coming up as they looked out the large bay window at the colorful sky.

Savoring his steaming black coffee, Rick tried to let himself enjoy the moment. The war was finally over. Michonne was out killing the last of their enemies, and he knew she could take care of herself. Carl and Judith were ok—Maggie, Carol, Enid, Sasha, Morgan, Eric, and Gabriel, too. Tara and Aaron were recovering. Daryl was home. Their family had survived, and they going to make the new world a place worth living in.

When Carol spoke again, it was in a slow, contemplative voice. “Rosita… she had that scar on her cheek.”

“So?”

“In the bathroom yesterday, I thought Daryl was trying to put his eye out or something. But he might have been…” She gestured to her cheek. “It’s just a thought.”

“We don’t know what happened in there, between when Negan got her and when Simon brought her back here.” Rick wished he could forget that last image of Rosita with a bag over her head. Simon had tried, in a desperate and stupid move, to use her as a bargaining chip for Negan even though she was clearly already gone, lurching in his grasp as she tried to bite him.

“We won’t know until Daryl tells us,” Carol said, calling his attention back.

“Or we could ask Dwight.”

Carol frowned at him. “It’s a good sign, you know. Daryl telling you about the music.”

“Hmm.”

“And it’s a good sign that you aren’t up there playing warden right now.”

“He’s asleep,” Rick replied, scowling a little. “I know you think- but I won’t- I don’t see where the harm is, keeping an eye on him until he’s steadier. Or in getting as much information from Dwight as we can, so we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Asking Dwight for some details is one thing, that’s fine. And I’m not against taking reasonable precautions while he gets settled. But the way you were talking last night…”

“I know. And I thought more about what you said. But I can’t just let him- I can’t stand back and let him hurt himself or… god forbid, opt out. I’d lock him up again before I let that happen.”

Carol was watching him intently. “It won’t happen.” When Rick didn’t respond, she reached out and took his hand. “It _won’t_. He's hurting, but he's still Daryl. That’s not in him.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast II

Rick was gone, the trapdoor was open, and Daryl was thirsty. The attic didn’t have a bathroom and he’d finished his water bottle off when he’d woken up panicking over a nightmare like a goddamn sissy.

In his nightmares he was usually a Savior. Daryl could never remember how or why he’d given in—in the dream he was always already broken, and he could speak his new name when asked. He was Negan. Or sometimes, in the particularly bad dreams, he was Simon.

Batting the thought away, Daryl looked around the attic, searching fruitlessly in hopes they'd left him another water bottle.

He could go downstairs; no one had said he wasn’t allowed.

No one was even guarding him.

Daryl paced the attic for several long minutes. He made the bed, looked at the books in the bookshelf, gazed up at the early morning sky through the skylight. He circled the trap door.

Finally he thought to himself _sack up, for fuck’s sake_ and bolted down the ladder. Drifting silently to the bathroom by the stairs, Daryl avoided looking in the mirror as he stuck his head under the sink and gulped down some water, keeping the faucet on low so it wouldn’t make any noise.

He was halfway down the stairs to the main floor when he heard Rick saying, “…the rope, but in a cell check at county lockup we wouldn’t have let a prisoner keep a pen either, you know? So do I take away his one form of communication, or-”

Daryl blinked. _Prisoner._

He spun around to go back upstairs, but knocked a foot against the railing in clumsy haste. Panic roared through him and he froze, hoping they hadn’t heard, but the voices in the kitchen stopped and an instant later Rick and Carol appeared at the bottom of the steps.

“You came down!” Rick said warmly, like Daryl hadn’t fallen right into a trap. Carol was smiling, too, and Daryl knew them, knew they weren’t sadistic fucks who got off on punishing him, so the smiling was… it was…

Rick stepped forward and Daryl flinched back violently. “Hey, hey, you’re ok,” Rick said softly, raising both palms as if to show he was unarmed. “We have breakfast ready, come on.”

And they went back through the door to the kitchen, leaving Daryl rooted in place for a second before scrambling to obey.

Carol was sitting at the table and Rick had turned towards the counter, preparing food of some sort. Unless Carl was down in the basement, it didn’t seem like anyone else was home. If he wanted to escape all Daryl would have to do was snap Rick’s neck before he had a chance to turn around, then when Carol came at him-

Nauseated with himself, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway.

“How’d you sleep, pookie?” Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged, keeping his eyes on the ground, sick with shame. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. This was _Carol_ , for god’s sake. _Rick_. But his brain kept skipping around like a shitty C.D.

“You’re going to have to start remembering that notebook,” she said. “Lotta people around here have missed you, and they’re all gonna want to talk to you sooner or later.”

Alarmed, Daryl glanced up. She was smiling gently.

Taking a chance, he made a disgusted face at her. She laughed, maybe a little harder than the joke deserved, so it was fine. It was better than fine; it was normal.

Rick whirled around at the sound. “What? What’d I miss?”

“Just Daryl being Daryl,” she said, winking.

Rick glanced at him curiously before continuing to bustle around the kitchen like a housewife, pouring something from a thermos before setting the mug on the table and going back to the counter to grab a plate of food. “I’m giving you small portions for now, don’t want to make you sick. If you’re still feeling good in a few hours you can have a bigger lunch. Sasha grabbed all this for us—well, Carol found the coffee.”

Fucking _coffee_ , Jesus Christ, when was the last time he’d had a cup of joe? Daryl edged towards the table and sat down. The bread wasn’t the same kind Dwight had used for his Alpo sandwiches, either. That was some sort of grainy, stale roll, often undercooked and doughy inside. This was mouthwatering by comparison. He wanted to inhale it.

There was a knock at the door while he was eating, and truthfully Daryl barely noticed at first. The food was that good.

Then Aaron walked in and the world came to a standstill, because he was carrying Judith in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two tiny chapters at once <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations.

As Jesus followed Aaron and Judith into Rick’s house carrying Aaron’s crutch, he saw a flash of movement in the corner of his eye—someone rushing towards them. He was maneuvering to use the crutch as a bludgeon before his brain properly registered what was happening.

Daryl halted suddenly in front of them, hovering just inside Aaron’s personal space. He didn’t seem to notice that Jesus had almost knocked him silly with a crutch; he was too busy staring at the little girl in Aaron’s arms. His eyes flicked around to take in her pigtails, her yellow shirt, her dark jeans, and her worn, dusty pink sneakers. He nodded once at Aaron, clasping his shoulder in greeting, before his eyes returned to Judith.

“Hiya,” Judy chirped, not shy at all. She’d greeted a decrepit old lawn chair the same way on the walk over from Nabila and Kiaan’s place.

Daryl’s lip trembled for just a moment before he pulled himself together and gave the girl a tiny wave with the hand not covered in cuts and bandages. His eyes were wide, one corner of his mouth slowly raising in a small but unmistakable smile.

This man didn’t merely love Judith, Jesus realized, watching as Daryl reached out a finger to touch one of the pigtails. He adored the little girl with a kind of paternal ferocity that rivaled Rick’s.

“Want to take her?” Aaron asked softly. A half-second later Daryl had Judith perched on his hip and was following her half-spoken, half-gestured commands, walking across the room to the small basket filled with her toys.

With undisguised relief, Aaron turned and took his crutch back from Jesus. “You alright?” Jesus asked, eyes going to the man’s injured leg. Aaron just nodded stoically.

Jesus had carried Judith most of the way, but Aaron hadn’t been sure how Daryl might react to seeing the girl in a relative stranger’s arms. Now that he had seen them together, Jesus agreed.

Smiling at them quickly in greeting, Carol moved around Rick to sit in the living room. Maybe she simply wanted to see the baby, but Jesus thought she might also be keeping an eye on the situation to ensure that Daryl would be safe from himself, perhaps even to keep Judith safe if he had another episode. After what they’d seen Daryl do yesterday… well, if she hadn’t gone, Jesus would have.

“Any word from the walkies about Michonne and the others?” Rick asked, gesturing them inside. He was speaking quietly enough that they wouldn’t be able to hear in the living room, and Aaron followed his lead.

“Not yet. And… sorry, I should have asked before just handing her off… but is he strong enough to be carrying her? He’s skin and bones,” Aaron said as they all walked into the kitchen together. Daryl had stayed hidden away in the basement while Aaron was there the previous evening; seeing him so diminished was clearly a shock.

“Honestly? Aside from trying to slash his face open, this is the first time he hasn’t looked at me for permission before doing something. I’m not about to stop him.” Still, Rick turned back and looked into the living room again. “They’re sitting now. He’s ok.”

“Looks like you were right about bringing her,” Jesus said to Aaron.

“Yeah. Thank you,” Rick said, his voice catching. The leader had seemed different since yesterday—not happy, exactly, but finally lacking some of the grim sadness and barely-concealed rage he’d had for months now.

“I don’t think I ever told you, but I saw his tape… you know, for Deanna,” Aaron said quietly as he and Jesus went to the counter to help themselves to some coffee, giving Rick a moment of privacy to wipe at his damp eyes. “I asked to see it, before we made the final decision about making Daryl a recruiter.”

“Tape?” Jesus asked distractedly. The fresh bread on the counter looked delicious.

“Our first leader here, Deanna Monroe—she’s gone now—to help her decide whether or not to take in newcomers, she would interview them and film it. She didn’t usually let people see them, but, well, I was going to be alone in the woods with this wild-looking country boy who had been out there for months… you get the idea. Daryl didn’t say much, but it was obvious he hated it here.”

Rick nodded. “First couple nights, he stayed awake sitting right by Judith’s crib with his crossbow in his lap. You’re the one that made him part of this place, you know. You and Eric.”

That was a little surprising. Jesus hadn’t realized Daryl was that close with the couple. He was learning all kinds of things about his new pupil that didn’t fit his original image of the man.

“Eric’s spaghetti did the heavy lifting,” Aaron said, shrugging, before he went on with his story. “In the video Daryl was walking around the Monroe’s pristine living room carrying a dead possum around by the tail, blood dripping on the carpet. She didn’t know what to make of him. But the way he talked about Judy and Carl deserving a home like this, that was about the only time he used more than a syllable or two in his answer. We knew he would try to adapt, make it work for them.”

In the living room, Judith shrieked with laughter.

“He’s going to adapt this time, too,” Aaron said, eyes kind as he clapped his leader on the shoulder.

“He will,” Rick said a few seconds later, still a little hoarse. “I should have brought Judy home first thing, should have known what it would mean to him. If I were gone for months, I’d-”

“You don’t always have to be the one to think of everything,” Jesus murmured, taking the carafe and pouring more coffee into Rick’s cup. He’d said those exact words, or something very similar, to Rick many times over the course of the war.

“How did last night go?” Aaron asked Rick, settling into a chair with a wince. Just carrying Judith two steps through the door had been too much for him.

Half-listening while they talked, Jesus took his coffee cup and walked back to the doorway. Daryl was cross-legged on the floor with Judith sitting on his ankles building a tower of small pastel blocks with a very serious expression on her face. Looking equally serious, Daryl helped by handing her one block at a time and occasionally reaching around to nudge one more firmly into place when the tower began to look wobbly. Every few seconds he brushed a hand across her back or kissed the side of her head, both actions so gentle that Judith didn’t even seem to notice them.

 _We should ask to babysit her during lessons_ , Jesus thought to himself. It would be a distraction, sure, but at her age Judith would probably pick up sign language more quickly than many of the adults would. He and his sister had started learning together at about that age.

“Jesus, I was thinking we’ll tell him today, and maybe even have you start with some basics,” Rick said, pulling him from his memories.

“Are we springing this on him too soon? Maybe we should give him a couple of days to just get used to being home again?” Aaron asked.

“I don’t know. He doesn't do well sitting around with nothing to occupy him," Rick replied thoughtfully.

Now Daryl was the one building a tower from the blocks. At random intervals, but almost always before he had more than five stacked together, Judith would knock it over with devilish laughter while Daryl made a mock-outraged face. Behind them Carol had to dab her eyes a couple of times, and Jesus fought a smile as he turned and walked back into the kitchen.

“A book I read last night said that picking up a new hobby might help manage PTSD. Maybe learning sign language counts as a hobby.”

Rick looked at him curiously. "You're reading up on PTSD? For Daryl?”

Jesus nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable without being quite sure why. “I asked Tara to bring some of, uh, Denise's textbooks. From what I read and what we've seen from him so far, he has the symptoms of pretty severe PTSD. And, well, it only makes sense, right? I mean we’re all walking around with unresolved trauma, but… being imprisoned, being tortured for months, being mutilated, God knows what else…” Rick and Aaron were both looking murderous thinking about it again. He moved on quickly. “Anyway. Denise had a book about treating veterans and POWs... I assume there will be some similarities. I know it might not do any good, but we don't have a psychologist, and I just thought learning a few strategies for coping with attacks could, well, you know, uh... help," he finished lamely, aware that he'd been rambling.

"Hey, anything you think could help him is fine by me," Rick replied, eyebrows still raised in surprise. “But what you’ve already offered to do is a lot, Jesus.”

“Happy to do it,” Jesus said, sincere if a little stiff, and then turned the conversation to restarting the community garden. They’d won the war, but the Saviors had destroyed so many things before their defeat. The windfall of supplies from the Sanctuary would help keep them afloat but they needed to refocus their energy on building up the communities. Swords into plowshares and all that.

—

They waited until the sounds of Judith playing wore away before finally getting down to business.

"Hey Daryl, come in here a minute.”

He entered warily, like a kid called into the principal's office. Judith was napping in his arms. He glanced at Rick and then tilted his head down towards Judith.

"As long as you ain't tired of holding her. I don't think she's gonna agree to let you go anytime soon," Rick said. Not for the first time, Jesus noticed their easy nonverbal communication.

Daryl settled himself in a chair beside Aaron, across from Rick and Jesus, then rearranged Judith in his lap so she could rest comfortably. There was a large spot of drool on his shoulder from where her head had been slumped against him.

"So," Rick said, sounding all kinds of awkward. "We've been thinking about your, uh… your new... condition, how to handle it. And your future.”

Daryl's jaw tightened and he went a little pale. Jesus realized that yet again, he had nothing to write with--he really needed to get better about carrying about a pen and paper. Pulling his own notebook from his coat pocket, Jesus flipped to the back, away from the maps of the Sanctuary and his notes on Denise's textbooks, before sliding it across the table to Daryl. Aaron stood and hobbled to grab him a pencil from the counter before going to join Carol in the living room. Jesus immediately wished he hadn’t left.

 **nothing to think about, hands fine aims fine** , Daryl wrote, being careful not to jostle Judith. **I can do the same shit as before, hunt fight scout fix cars, whatever work you got. tell me what to do, Ill put Judy down for her nap and get started**

Jesus frowned. Daryl was in no physical condition for any of that. "This isn't about putting you to work, Daryl. You're still weak, no one wants you out hunting or scouting-”

Daryl was already scribbling something else. Jesus watched the way his hand was clenched tightly around the pen and his his fingers shook slightly when he finished writing. Whatever reaction Daryl was having to this conversation, he'd already made it worse somehow.

**I can be useful**

Daryl had underlined the words with force, nearly tearing the paper. He was looking at Rick with desperation writ large all over his face.

When neither man responded right away, both too thrown by the direction Daryl was taking the conversation, he added **Let me prove it. Was just being a pussy yesterday, Im fine now.**

He was sweating and beginning to hyperventilate. Startled, Jesus glanced edgily at Rick, but his attention was fully on his brother.

"Hey," Rick said calmly, gently putting a hand out to stop Daryl from writing anything else. "You think you have to prove that? Prove it to _me_? I’ve lost count of the times you’ve saved my ass. Fed my family. But for now you’re going to take some time, get your strength back." Daryl shook his head, hand twitching under Rick's, but Rick kept talking in the same soothing tone. “You remember at the prison, after Lori died? I needed some time and you gave it to me, you and the others. Now it's your turn.”

Daryl pulled his hand out from under Rick's. **Aint the same thing**

"No, it's not. There was nothing physically wrong with me, for a start. You’ve been starved and tortured.” Daryl went for the paper but Rick said sharply, “Don’t you try to deny it, or minimize it, or whatever it is you’re about to do. Also, I lost my shit when our people needed me, when my _children_ needed me, over the death of one-" he coughed, then continued, “the death of _one_ person. You took care of them all back then, you took care of me, of everything. Now you've been through hell and God damn it, Daryl, you’re going to let _me_ take care of _you_ this time.”

Jesus felt acutely like he was intruding. After staring at the table for what felt like an eternity, Daryl wrote **When did you get sapy man?** ,then exhaled harshly and closed his eyes.

Jesus couldn't read the emotion on his face but it seemed Rick could. He waited until Daryl opened his eyes, then said, “I’ve always been sappy. Now you’re going to let yourself heal, if I have to tie you-" he halted awkwardly, biting his lip before continuing, "You're gonna take it easy until you get better, that's all. Don't argue with me on this, brother. When you've had some square meals and Alex—he’s a nurse from Hilltop—when Alex clears you, I'll put you to work. Alright?”

Daryl was visibly calmer, though his face was still twitching with some unknown emotion. He wrote **should earn my keep.**

The scout almost, _almost_ , wanted to laugh at the sheer stubbornness of this guy.

Frustration seeping into his voice, Rick snapped, “You’re family, you don't need to earn a damn thing. Christ, what the hell…” He broke off, barely holding onto his temper. It wasn't Daryl he was angry at, Jesus knew, but Daryl still leaned back in the chair, fear flashing in his eyes and a hand moving protectively to the nape of Judith’s neck.

Putting a restraining hand on Rick's arm, Jesus thought quickly through everything he knew about Daryl--everything that had been revealed that morning. Daryl's eyes darted to follow the movement. His face was blank again as Jesus said, "We have plenty of food and supplies for now, thanks to raiding the Saviors' warehouse. That won't always be the case--we'll need you back hunting and scouting soon enough. But for now, we’re ok. Let your family take care of you, so you'll be well enough to take care of them later.”

It was blatant manipulation.

It seemed to work.

Daryl relaxed a bit, shoulders unclenching even as he wrote **you aint got to baby me, I like hunting.**

“Is that what this is about? You want to be out in the woods chasing squirrels again?" Rick cracked a smile and Daryl's lip twitched at the teasing. "You and I can go hunting together sometime soon, alright? I’m just not putting you on the duty roster yet.”

 **why did you want to talk then** Daryl wrote, gesturing between the two of them.

“Because I’m going to teach you sign language!” Jesus said in his most obnoxiously cheerful voice, and braced himself for the inevitable argument to follow.

\--

In the end, Daryl didn’t fight them that much.

There was **I aint working** **and** **you got one of your best fighters babysitting me** and **you think Im any good at shit like this I fucking dropped out of high school** directed at Rick, then **aint you got anything better to do** and **did you volunter or is he making you** and **tired of hilltop or something** directed at Jesus.

And then finally, with a very skeptical look on his face, Daryl began to learn his ABCs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed some fluff after reading the sad fics.
> 
> Forgive me, I knew not what I did when I lobbied for it ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richonne <3

At about ten o’clock the next morning Rick paced in the sunshine, hand resting on his Python and boots kicking at a stray bullet casing on the pavement, as he tried not to feel nervous over the fact that he’d left Daryl and Jesus alone at the house. Carol was busy taking a shift guarding Negan, Aaron had crashed after a night watch, Tara was on duty at the infirmary, and Carl stood with Rick at the gate, holding Judith and waiting for Michonne and the others to return. About twenty Alexandrians milled around with them, a few praying, most standing in tense silence.

The fighters had finally got in touch via radio early that morning. No signs of Simon or Arat, but most of the major players at the Sanctuary had been taken out and confirmed dead. Most of the minor ones, too, for that matter. No one had been feeling too forgiving after all the deaths on their side, the living side.

Those who had been enslaved at the Sanctuary— _‘Working for points,’ my ass,_ Rick thought—had been freed, and most had been taken to the Kingdom or Hilltop to recuperate and hopefully join in the effort to rebuild. No one from the Sanctuary was going to be boarded so close to Negan’s cell, though, that was for damn sure.

The war was really and truly won, and the conquering soldiers were coming home.

After what felt like hours of pacing, a shout went up from the wall. The gate creaked open slowly, still damaged from the last skirmish, and cars began to drive through. Then suddenly all Rick could see was Michonne’s bright smile, usually so rare, through the window of the first jeep in the convoy. He hardly noticed Eric jumping out of the passenger side, or Carl telling him that Aaron should be at home.

Heart lighter than it had been in months,  Rick spun his wife around and around when she finally parked the car and threw herself into his arms. Carl did the same a moment later after handing Judith off to Gabriel, who had run over from another car.

Alexandria celebrated around them, but Rick was still lost in dark brown eyes. He stared greedily into them as he thought _Us. It’s us. We’re the ones who live_.

—

“Morgan… Morgan’s missing. We’re hoping he turns up somewhere, but… well, we just don’t know, things got hairy with a group he was chasing. We lost Jerry, Scott, Matt, Bertie, a few others. Ezekiel was wounded—he was trying to get Jerry to safety—and it’s not looking good. Harlan’s doing what he can,” Michonne said quietly, about fifteen minutes later. They hadn’t moved from the main road just yet, though most everyone else had disbursed to celebrate or mourn in their homes.

Rick barely had a moment to process the pain of those losses when Michonne continued, “Maggie was shot-”

Terror raked him instantly. “What? Where? Is she ok? Is the baby-”

“Should be fine, it was just a graze on the thigh. Bled a decent amount and she’ll have a nasty scar, but we cleaned the wound and stitched her up quickly. Scared the hell out of Sasha and Enid, though—they were with her when it happened. Enid probably would have ripped that Savior apart with her bare hands, but Dante got to him first. They’re all at Hilltop now.” Michonne hesitated a moment. “I know Carol’s helping with Daryl here, but Ezekiel…”

“Yeah. She should- of course she should go. Anyone else going that direction today or tomorrow?”

“I thought maybe Jesus could take her. We heard he came this way with you two when you brought Daryl home.” Despite all the sadness, their perpetual state of mourning since this war had begun, her lips curved into a small smile as she said those last two words. They’d never really dared to believe Daryl would make it out of the Sanctuary alive.

“Actually, Jesus is sticking around for awhile.”

“Really?” Michonne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why? And what does Maggie have to say about that?”

“I think she’ll be ok with it once we tell her the reason.”

“And that reason is…” Michonne prompted, frowning.

“Come see for yourself.”

—

As they walked, Carl filled Michonne in on Daryl’s progress, such as it was. Rick was distracted just watching her walk, carrying Judith gracefully with one arm as her sword bounced against her back.

He felt guilty for thinking it after all the death and destruction of the past days and months—Morgan was missing, and shit, Ezekiel might be dying—but in that moment he felt like the luckiest asshole left on God’s green earth.

“Shouldn’t have left him alone in the bathroom, maybe,” was all Michonne said at first about Daryl’s incident with the mirror, but she snuggled Judith a little closer to her side despite the bloodstains on her shirt. Then, after a long moment, she added, “He’ll be ok. You know that, right?”

Carl nodded, but Rick couldn’t help wondering if his son really believed her or if he was just allowing them their optimism.

—

They were almost to the end of the street before Rick realized there were people waiting for him on his porch. He saw Eric first, standing over someone seated on the patio furniture. A few more steps and he realized it wasn’t Aaron, as expected, but Jesus, holding a large ice pack to his eye and looking agitated.

Rick sprinted the rest of the way home, startling Judith into tears with how quickly he took off. Carl was right behind him, with Michonne jogging along behind trying to comfort Judith as she went.

“What happened? Who’s with him?” Rick snarled as he bolted up the steps, anger welling up inside him with startling quickness.

Eric physically blocked his path into the house. “Aaron’s with him, Rick. Rick! Hey, calm- calm down. You need to calm down before you go inside. Daryl’s fine, he’s not hurt. There was just a little… hiccup.”

“It’s my fault,” Jesus offered quickly, and Rick rounded on him, fire in his eyes.

Eric stepped between them, blocking Rick yet again. “It’s no one’s fault. Or it’s Negan’s fault, I guess. Your pick.”

“What happened?” Rick asked again, emphasizing each word, barely able to calm his breathing and focus on the response.

“We were working on some basics… I figured he should know how to ask for help, how to warn people about danger, stuff like that. His notebook was slipping from his lap while he was trying to sign some words back to me, so I reached forward to stop it from falling. It, um… startled him,” Jesus winced at the last words.

“He hit you.”

“Yeah. The guy still packs a punch. But the real problem came afterwards, he just kind of… shut down. He was, I don’t know, catatonic or something, crouching next to the couch, arms protecting his head. He wouldn’t even look at me, so I knocked on the wall between the condos until Aaron woke up and came over. I didn’t want to leave Daryl alone, but it seemed like maybe he felt-” an uncomfortable pause, “-threatened by me.” Jesus frowned, combing a hand absently through his long hair. “I’m sorry, I should have known not to make any sudden movements around him. He was doing great until then.”

“It’s not your fault,” Eric said again, firmly. “We don’t- we don’t know what he’s been through, so we don’t know what sets him off yet. We’ll learn.”

Michonne had caught up by then, Judith still whimpering on her hip. Looking to Rick, she said, “Let me go in there. Carl said he lit up with Judith, right?”

“Nah, I’ll- I’ll go talk to him. He’s responded best to me so far, seen me the most.” Smiling halfheartedly at his daughter, who still had a few tear tracks on her chubby cheeks, Rick added, “We’ll try Little Miss Sunshine here if I can’t bring him around.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dissociation.

Daryl came back to himself slowly.

The first thing he felt an overwhelming need to apologize, but he couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong.

There was a warm hand rubbing his shoulders. He tensed and the hand paused briefly, then continued in the same soothing, repetitive pattern.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” the person beside him said quietly. Daryl kept his eyes closed. Maybe they thought he was asleep. He felt exhausted and achy. His hands hurt, and he realized one of them was bandaged. He’d been clenching both into fists—slowly he relaxed them, feeling blood flow back into his fingers.

“We need to know what they did to him,” another voice said, also quiet. Or maybe Daryl’s ears weren’t working right anymore. He’d wondered that before sometimes, after days of silence in the cell, if it was really that quiet or if he just couldn’t hear the noises around him. The idea of being unable to hear footsteps approaching his cell, of losing that small warning that someone was coming to hurt him, used to terrify him.

“Haven’t exactly had the time to ask Dwight, but I will.”

At Dwight’s name Daryl curled in on himself slightly. He couldn’t help it. He tried and failed to keep his body relaxed, but the tension crept into his neck and shoulders despite himself.

“Hey, Daryl, you with us?” The voice was soft. A woman. She wanted a response, so Daryl managed to nod.

“I’ll get him some water,” a third voice said.

“No, Jesus, you should stay. Michonne, could you-”

At Michonne’s name, Daryl finally opened his eyes and looked up.

He wasn’t in the cell, he was in Rick’s living room. Rick sat on the floor beside him rubbing his back, and relief sank deep under Daryl’s skin as he came out of whatever fucking trance he’d been in. He was safe. The fear still crawled along his backbone but he knew he could ignore it for now.

Michonne was on the couch on Rick’s other side, her legs resting against her boyfriend’s shoulders. She had a large new scar on her face from the middle of her forehead, over her eyebrow, all the way to her temple. Jesus was slumped in a chair across the room, hair fanned out against the cushion.

Shit, Jesus. His eye was bruising up pretty bad.

Before Daryl could panic about what he’d done, Michonne was kneeling in front of him, beaming. He blinked at her, startled even though he’d known she was in the room. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.

Slowly, she reached out to touch his face. Like Rick, she was gentle. It was confusing. Daryl leaned into her hand even as discomfort rose heavy in his chest. She kissed his forehead once and pulled away before it overwhelmed him, still moving at a snail’s pace. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’m going to get you some water, ok?”

Daryl nodded. He thought maybe he managed some kind of smile.

“You remember what happened?” Rick asked as she left the room. He’d finally withdrawn his hand.

Glancing at Jesus, Daryl nodded. Rick had his notebook and pen, so he grabbed it and wrote **Sorry don’t know why I** and then didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Instead he just underlined the ‘sorry,’ trying to breathe through the wave of thick, black anxiety. He hadn’t even had a reason for sucker punching the guy, he’d just lost control of his fists on pure instinct.

“It’s fine,” Jesus assured him easily, like some near-stranger hadn’t almost knocked his teeth out. He even signed the words as he said them, still trying to _teach_ for fuck’s sake. He’d explained that he would sign when anyone spoke, including himself, and Daryl was supposed to pay attention and try to repeat things he didn’t know. Daryl still didn’t get the point of all this, but he obediently tried to repeat the motions. He wasn’t processing the meaning, but Jesus seemed satisfied by the gesture.

 **ain’t you gonna hit me back? fairs fair** , Daryl wrote. It was mostly just a joke, even if in one corner of Daryl’s mind he felt wrong about not being hit back, like a greater punishment would come later if Jesus didn’t get his licks in now. He knew it wasn’t right even as he thought it, though. Rick wasn’t about to let anyone hit him,  likely even if he deserved it.

Jesus’s eyes widened and he and Rick shared an anxious glance. _Guess jokes fall a little flat when people think you’re losing your goddamn mind,_ Daryl thought to himself.

“No. No one’s going to hurt you,” Jesus said, startled enough that he forgot to sign along. He picked it up again when he added, “No one here is going to hurt or punish you.”

“Don’t teach him how to say that,” Rick barked, startling both Daryl and Jesus before Daryl could start to repeat the words. “Punish, punishment, he doesn’t need to know how to-” With visible effort he got ahold of himself. “Sorry. Jesus is right, no one’s going to hurt you.”

Daryl nodded, looking awkwardly between them. He wanted to write that he’d known that, that he'd been trying to lighten the mood, but he didn’t know how to phrase it. Fortunately he was saved by Michonne coming in with water. It was enough of a distraction to ease the pressure, at least.

 **gotta piss** , he wrote instead, waving her away.

She held the glass out insistently. “Drink first, then piss.”

Rolling his eyes, Daryl downed half the glass and set the rest on a coffee table. He realized as he moved to stand why she’d insisted: he was covered in sweat. His ass was also numb—Christ, how long had he been off in la-la land?

The question made his heartbeat spike. He had to get a grip. They couldn’t let him stay if flipped his shit over nothing, lashed out at people, drifted in and out of reality… not even Rick would be able to justify letting someone like that near his children.

 _Fuck._ Daryl swayed on his feet for a moment. Jesus caught his arm, then withdrew just as fast.

“You, uh, you gonna be alright in there?” Rick asked, brow furrowed.

Sans notebook, Daryl simply nodded.

“I don’t just mean- y’know. But what happened yesterday, with the mirror…” He hesitated. “Don’t close the door all the way, please. Just for now, until you’re, uh, feeling more yourself.”

Blushing, Daryl nodded again. He turned towards the downstairs bathroom.

“Let me know if you want another shower,” Rick called.

Then came Michonne’s teasing voice, “Why? He’s already cleaner than I’ve ever seen him.”

Daryl didn’t turn around, but his lips twitched into a tiny smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read up a bit on body awareness and PTSD for this one. Interesting stuff.
> 
> Also, if Daryl's state of... sanity, for lack of a better word, seems to vary in this fic, that's because it's common for that to happen in PTSD. At times veterans describe feeling relatively "normal," but when an episode occurs, safe spaces and safe people can feel threatening all over again. Daryl knows he's safe with Rick, but when triggered his mind won't allow him to feel safe no matter what.
> 
> Also FYI, dissociation in PTSD is apparently quite rare, but it's most likely to occur at the beginning of the healing period (or with people self-medicating through substance abuse, but that's not relevant here).

**Author's Note:**

> Updates might be slow in coming... want to do this one well.
> 
> I got a tumblr (https://canoncannon.tumblr.com) so I can keep up with the rest of the fandom a bit more... no clue what the hell I'm doing, but hey, follow me!


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